


Bandage Scissors

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Vehicular Sex, destruction of innocent tights, now that's one hell of a physical exam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: What happened in the back of the ambulance in The Lying Detective? How could Sherlock Holmes distract Molly Hooper from giving him an unwanted physical exam, using only the tools on hand?Wait, I've got it...





	

Molly Hooper checked her phone for the time as the driver pulled to a quick, jolting stop outside a nondescript but nicely-kept house in a residential neighborhood. After confirming she was arriving at the very minute requested (12:32 was an oddly specific request, but wasn’t Sherlock Holmes odd in so many ways?), she smiled apologetically at the driver and climbed out of the left side of the cab, then turned and fairly marched across the street. She raised her fist to knock, which ended up being a needless gesture as the door swung open to reveal John Watson. Well, that didn’t make much sense. Why was she _the doctor Sherlock needed_ when John was around?

“Um, hel-hello. Is, uh…I’m sorry, Sh-Sherlock asked me to come.”

John looked confused and…angry. “What, two weeks ago?”

Molly did the math. Five gunshot and two poisoning victims. Two weekends of first dates that did nothing for her followed by a Sunday of watching dear Rosie. She nodded, “Yeah, about two weeks.” Behind her, she could hear the paramedics opening the back door of the ambulance and deploying their equipment.

John nodded the nod of someone resigned to never understanding the why or hows of the odd mind of their consulting detective.

Sherlock popped into the hallway, looking much worse for wear than the last time Molly saw him, when she turned him away from John and Mary’s flat. The memory of the pain on his face, the apparent longing to touch Rosie, to get started again on her “deductive reasoning lessons”, had her heart clenching painfully even now. She _had_ tried to call a couple times at 221B since, but in each instance, she was mysteriously called away the moment she turned onto the street, to attend _highly_ _classified_ autopsies.

Sherlock smiled behind dulled eyes, only a shadow of his egotistical genius showing through. “If you’d like to know _how_ I predict the future…”

John turned, fists clenching, displaying the fury that seemed to be one of only two emotions displayed every time Molly had seen him since Mary’s death, and ground out, “I don’t care how.”

Sherlock twisted his body to pass John in the door, communicating his drug-hazed nonchalance through his thrown-up hands and inflectionless voice. “Okay. Fully equipped ambulance; Molly can examine me on the way. It’ll save time. Ready to go, Molly?”

“Oh, well…” Molly looked between the two men and struggled to catch up. John generally handled Sherlock’s medical care. And anyway, she didn’t see any clear signs of injury. Although scruffy and attired in his dressing gown in someone else’s home in the middle of the day, Sherlock appeared unharmed.

“Just tell me when to cough.” Sherlock smiled and wiggled his eyebrows up into his disheveled curls, stepping past her toward the waiting ambulance. “Hope you remembered my coat.”

Molly turned back to John, her eyebrows drawn together. “Wh…I…Sorry. I didn’t know that you were gonna be here. Absolutely no idea what’s going on.”

John’s tight-lipped expression conveyed the only other emotion he seemed able to feel since his wife died: the numbness of melancholy. “Sherlock’s using again.”

Molly’s embarrassed smile dropped instantly and all the evidence clicked into place. “Oh God. But, um, a-are you sure?” This didn’t make any sense. Why didn’t she know? Why had Mycroft called her away whenever she tried to visit Sherlock? Why did the stupid, arrogant Holmes brother even develop the concept of “danger nights” if he wasn’t bloody well going to use it?

John sighed in frustration and spoke loudly over the clatter of Sherlock’s stumble off the kerb. “No, it’s _Sherlock_. Of _course_ I’m not sure.” He turned his deep, sad eyes back to Molly and implored softly, “Just…check him out.”

Molly Hooper dropped her wringing hands and nodded decisively, then walked slowly back toward the ambulance. Why was Sherlock was once again destroying his mind, his body, and his relationships? If the frustrating man tried to tell her that it was for a case, she…well, she wasn’t quite sure what she would do.

 

 

Molly climbed, with as much grace as possible given her skirt-and-tights outfit, into the back of the vehicle. After brushing off the front of her thighs, she tilted her hear up and found herself face to face with Sherlock Holmes…or was this “Shezza”? Her stomach dropped as she remembered the day last winter when the Watsons hauled a high Sherlock into her lab for drug testing. She considered the man, who had no right to look so attractive, sitting non the cot affixed to the floor in his wrinkled day clothes and dressing gown, slightly ginger three-day beard and bags below his eyes doing nothing to dull the beauty of his sculpted face.

She sniffed cautiously, noting a slight sweaty musk that wasn’t _exactly_ unappealing. Sherlock’s dilated eyes followed her as she turned away to help close the doors of the ambulance. She turned back around and avoided those eyes as she pulled on a pair of purple nitrile gloves with quick, jerking, _angry_ motions.

“Care to explain yourself, Sherlock?”

“Not as such. I would like to avoid a physical exam, if possible.”

“Not likely.” Molly said, looking at the table on her left to locate then reach for the otoscope.

Suddenly, that deep-as-sin voice was an inch from her ear, and breath scented with tea and nicotine wafted over her carotid pulse. “Molly Hooper, you’re growing stronger.” She swore she felt his lips brush against the body of her sternocleidomastoid muscle. She gulped in a deep sip of air and held it, thinking that _it couldn’t hurt_ to listen to what Sherlock had to say.

“It used to take one smile, then it was a bag of crisps, then a revelation that you have always mattered to me.” He placed a small kiss over the angle of her right jaw then moved those lips to her ear and dropped his whisper to approximate a subsonic, soul-vibrating, feral _purr_. “What can I do to convince you this time?”

Molly released her breath and whipped her head back toward Sherlock. She met the nearly unfocused eyes of the most handsome man in London, a man who was perhaps not entirely in control of his actions. Those opal irises dropped to her lips and he leaned in. And, _damn him damn him damn him_ , Dr. Molly Hooper let Sherlock Holmes claim her mouth.

She brought her left hand up to rest over the scratchy bristles of his beard and pivoted her body so it was aligned against his. Sherlock grunted as he performed a complicated maneuver to simultaneously open her lips, push his tongue into her mouth, grasp her hips, rut against her, and back her against the wall of the moving vehicle.

She would have thought she was prepared for the slamming barrage of sensations, given how many times and in how many permutations she had imagined intimate contact with Sherlock, but at the first brush of his groin against her clothed mons, she collapsed backwards, grateful for the wall of the ambulance chamber. She tilted her head to receive him, wrapped a sweaty nape curl around her right hand, and just _felt_. 

His hand snaked beneath the front of her skirt and he grunted with frustration as his fingers skimmed over the front of her tights. With so little room to maneuver in the tight space, he was forced to withdraw his hand and repeat his approach. The brush of those long fingers over her sensitive flesh made her gasp, but not as much as the warmth of those digits spreading her labia and dipping into her vagina, then dragging the moisture back to slick around her already swelling clitoris. Of course the damn man would be an expert at manual stimulation. Of _bloody_ _course_.

Her breath puffed against his lips in wordless, desperate pants as he moved the pads of his first two fingers in tight circles against her. The direct, relentless pressure was nearly too much, and she whimpered in relief when his hand stilled and he swore, breaking the bruising kiss to mutter a brief swear. He muttered to himself and withdrew his hand to scrabble over the counter to their right as his left hand dealt quickly with the buttons on her cardigan and blouse. He dropped her lips and glanced down to watch as he ran his left index finger over the lace-edged cup of her cherry-print bra.

“Molly Hooper…” he breathed, before recommencing their heated kiss as his right hand backtracked on the table, stilled, and closed around something.

Molly tried to blink herself back to coherent thought. What had he been looking for? What medical tool could he _possibly_ …? Her breath caught again as she heard the smooth slide of metal against metal.

Sherlock drew back a fraction to catch her eyes. He seemed sober, suddenly. So in control and so sexy as he _growled_ , “Bandage scissors.”

Molly gulped.

Sherlock inserted his left knee between Molly’s tensed thighs. He used his hands to bunch her skirt up to the waist and then pressed down at both sides of her hips to bring her pelvis into contact with his leg. He groaned as Molly ground down against him and let out a small whimper. She had a job to do here, and she had been doing so well, being _so strong_ , not letting this infernal man manipulate her. But…but…“Sherlock, please. It’s…it’s not enough.”

Sherlock placed a feather light kiss on her lips, then one on her forehead, and Molly’s heart swelled. Maybe this wasn’t just a distraction for him. Maybe he meant this?

The detective lifted her with a slight grunt, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he palmed her buttocks. He pivoted until she was suspended above the ambulance’s stretcher. He placed her at the bottom of the table none too gently and moved his hands, the right side still gripping the bandage scissors, between her legs, making sure they stayed open as he ran long, sure fingers up the inside.

Once his hands reached the apex, Sherlock smirked with that sinful Cupid’s bow and lowered his mouth to her crotch. He huffed warm, moist air onto her sensitive skin and followed this with some pressure and a flick from his tongue. Molly’s head fell back against the padded table, barely registering the muffled thud echoing in the ambulance. The driver could have heard and could be peering directly through the small window connecting cab and bay for all she cared, which was… _not a bit_. 

“Yes, Molly. Just lay back and relax. Let me…distract you.” Sherlock moved his hands over her hipbones, still encased in stretchy tight material as his voice rumbled an inch away from her most intimate parts. He buried his nose in the crease between her leg and pubis and inhaled deeply, the sound of his breath almost covering the quiet _snick_ of the scissors opening.

Molly Hooper decided to let herself have this, _fuck it all_. It wasn’t as if her exam would find anything she didn’t already know. And who was she kidding…she had no chance at controlling Sherlock’s actions, anyway. She let the tension out of her thighs and opened herself fully to whatever Sherlock intended to do with her.

She felt the pull of fabric as Sherlock pinched a section of her tights between her left leg and groin. She held her breath and listened to the _rrrt_ of the fabric yielding as the pressure released beneath the scissors. Cool, dry air mixed with the warm puffs of Sherlock’s breath in an absolutely intoxicating array of sensation against her bared skin. She let herself float, awash in sin and anticipation, as the _snick rrrt_ of snip brought more of her body into the open, under Sherlock’s eyes.

She jumped as she heard the clatter of dropped scissors against the metal floor, then gasped as she felt Sherlock’s callused fingers against her center as he pushed her underwear to the side. He chuckled softly, presumably at the panties which matched her cherry-print bra, the action propelling warm breath over her labia. Molly arched toward his mouth.

And suddenly, he was there. The mouth and tongue of Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant man, the most beautiful man, the only man who mattered, were on her, in her, caressing her with rhythmic intensity.

The sounds of licks, sips, and sighs, of fingers slipped into tight wet spaces, combined in ways that shouldn’t have been romantic or erotic but _ohmygod_ they _were_. The man could use his tongue for so much more than snark, and Molly felt a low, throbbing tension building deep inside herself, could feel a corresponding tingling in her nipples as Sherlock continued his relentless ministrations.

“Yes, Dr. Hooper. That’s it,” the low-frequency rumble of his voice vibrated around her clitoris and Molly thrust down on his fingers and tilted her pelvis to grind into his mouth, moaning when his teeth pressed against her swollen flesh. She felt the contractions of her vaginal canal begin and Sherlock groaned again, if possible intensifying her impending orgasm. “Yes, Molly. Let go.”

And she did, gasping and high-pitched, tears leaking from her eyes. When had she last been so _thoroughly_ fucked?

Sherlock nuzzled soft kisses to her trimmed pubic hair and placed his large hand soothingly over her mons, then lifted his head to smile at her, all teeth and lips shiny with his saliva and her juices. She sensed the ambulance coming to a halt and sat up, still trying to catch her breath. Sherlock stood, then offered a hand to help her stand and steady her quivering stance. He kissed her lightly, with just a hint of tongue, and leaned back to meet her eyes again.

“Now, that was certainly a more pleasant way to pass the time than a boring old exam, wasn’t it?”

Molly blinked several times, attempting to bring herself back to the present, and glanced down at her ruined tights. She grimaced and peeled off the gloves she had forgotten she had on (although now that she considered it, she did detect a slight tang of latex in her mouth, and saw imprints of her teeth on the right glove between her thumb and forefinger). She fretfully pulled her skirt back into place and rebuttoned her blouse, running a hand over her hair just as the two paramedics opened the bay doors.

“Everything good, Dr. Hooper?” the paramedic asked, his eyes moving quickly between Sherlock, who appeared to be looking for his coat, and herself. She felt a blush rise and waved the man off with a reassuring smile. She walked to the edge of the ambulance and plopped down, crossing her ankles to ensure propriety. She clasped her hands and tried to determine what exactly that was and how the hell it had happened. She heard Sherlock hum in a self-satisfied manner and angle himself onto the stretcher. He reclined calmly, steepling his hands over his chin and lips.

Sooner than she would have liked, she heard the precise military stride of John Watson.

“Well, how is he?”

Molly fought to control the blush threatening to light up her cheeks again. She took a breath and prepared to play her part. Damn the obstinate, beautiful man who overwhelmed her senses at every opportunity.

Sherlock was already standing, in the process of switching his dressing gown for the Belstaff. He darted a glance at Molly and John and fliply commented, “Basically fine.”

Molly bit at her cheek and spoke the truth, “I’ve seen healthier people on the slab.”

Sherlock tilted her a smile, eyes sparkling and lips still slightly glistening. “Yeah, but…to be fair…you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young.”

Suddenly the reality of the situation, of Sherlock’s descent back into drug use and likely addiction, of her complicit participation in this charade, hit home. Hard. “Not funny,” she ground out.

“ _Little_ bit funny.”

Molly could hear the thickness of fear and frustration in her voice as she tried to talk some sense into her short-sighted genius. “If you keep taking what you’re taking at the rate you’re taking it, you’ve got weeks.”

Sherlock came to stand behind her, glancing down at his two friends as he clasped the poles around the doorway and leaned casually over them. “Exactly, weeks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sherlock stepped the meter to the ground and teetered until he found his footing.

Molly stood and fought back her tears, the passionate interlude entirely forgotten for the moment, “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, it’s not a game!”

Sherlock turned to her, soft concern breaking through the drugged hazed in his eyes for the flutter of a second, “I’m worried about you, Molly. You seem very _stressed_.”

She breathed and tempted her anger with concern. Of course, Sherlock…of course, “I’m stressed…you’re dying.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! My first Sherlolly fic. I really loved writing Molly here, because her profession and medical point of view were at the forefront, at least at the beginning. If you can't tell, I dig using my medical training in fic.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful mandysimo13, my sister in smut and appreciation of Shezza. I would be remiss if I didn't mention girlwhowearsglasses and sundayduck, who planted the idea of using bandage scissors to...clear the field for the procedure, as we say in medicine. And of course, I couldn't have done this without the wonderful transcript work of Ariane DeVere!
> 
> Any errors are mine, please let me know what you catch!
> 
> I'm over on tumblr at sweeter-than-cynicism, but you should know I'm a multi-shipper. ;)


End file.
